


The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter (1897)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [162]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Forgery, Gay Sex, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Memories, Theft, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 02:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11499648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock was often called in to find items that had been stolen – but this was the first time that he had been asked to investigate something that had not been stolen!





	The Adventure Of The Missing Three-Quarter (1897)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



I suppose that I should have been somewhat chagrined at not being included in the 'Yoxley Case', which helped restore my friend to his old self, but I had to (grudgingly) admit that he was right when he said that I was a terrible liar. And at least I had my old Sherlock back, for which I was truly grateful.

Well, most of me was truly grateful. Certain parts of my anatomy, however, had other views on the matter. For following the departure of Mr. Lucius Holmes and his friend from Baker Street, Sherlock had informed Mrs. Singer that we would both be unavailable for cases for the next two weeks (her smirk was uncalled for, I felt, and the snigger I heard as she left was just pushing it). And then he had turned to me, and......

I have never ached so much in my entire life. He seemed determined to mark his return to the fray with a bang – literally! - and I was just along for the ride. I had never been so used in our whole relationship.

Lord above, it was glorious!

+~+~+

March arrived, and what was left of me found it hard to believe that it was some three months since our return from Futility Island. The winter had been fierce (yes, Sherlock had been fiercer; no need to say it!), and I was glad of a warm Baker Street fire and the human heater that I slept with every night. I was reading about the latest French manoeuvres in the Sudan – they seemed determined to do the Germans' work for them, the fools, and shatter the undeclared Anglo-French alliance – when a voice cut into my thoughts from across the breakfast table.

“John. What do you make of this?”

Sherlock was holding out a letter, which bore all the hallmarks of many such that came to the house daily. I took it and examined it.

“Cheap paper”, I said. “The sender lives in Kent; the town of Lydd is in Romney Marsh, which I have been to before. The writing is very neat.” 

I read it aloud:  
_“'Dear Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,_  
_I hope that you are both well. Do you have the time to investigate a small case for my grandfather? He is concerned that a portrait owned by his former employer has not been stolen._  
_Yours most respectfully_  
_Edwin Hallott (Master)_  
_Postscriptum: If you write back, please do so to my grandparents' house in the town, Cherry-Tree Cottage, as my parents do not know that I am writing to you. Thank you.'”_

I looked across at Sherlock.

“I suppose that you have started cases with less to go on”, I said with a laugh, “but not many. The boy does not exactly overburden us with facts!”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I rather think that you underestimate young Master Hallott”, he smiled. “He has provided just enough information to tantalize, and to provoke the question as to why his grandfather is possibly delusional. He knows that we must receive many similar requests each day, so he strives to make his one stand out. I must admit, he has succeeded.”

“You are going to Kent?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course not!” he said firmly. When I looked surprised, he amended, “ _we_ are going to Kent.”

I smiled. In times past I would have objected at his assuming my readiness to fall in with his plans, but now.... now I wanted to spend every waking minute I had with the man.

Yes, and the sleeping ones as well! After recent 'events', I needed my sleep!

+~+~+

The journey to Lydd was an odd one, an express taking us at a fair pace from Victoria Station to the town of Ashford, nearly all the way there, before we had to take first one local train a few stops to Appledore, and then a branch-line train to Lydd itself. It brought back some slightly unpleasant memories for me; I had as I had mentioned to Sherlock been to the area once before to attend the son of a client. What I had not told him was that this had been during his second absence (the 'Hellatus'), and that I had found the area I had visited flat, wet and frankly unsettling. Although it had matched my mood at the time well enough. 

Fortunately the address that young Master Hallott had mentioned was close to the station, so as the weather was fine we opted to walk. The only downside was the wind across the flat marsh, which made Sherlock's hair look as if we had.... well, you know. And that had been way back last night.

And this morning. 

Before and after breakfast. I think Sherlock had said something about making up for lost time, but my hearing, like what remained of my other senses, was somewhere in the æther by that time.

Cherry-Tree Cottage was a well-kept house in the High Street, with a delightful little garden and roses clambering up and down the porch. A grey-haired elderly lady was kneeling down and tending to a flower-bed, and rose stiffly to her feet as we approached. 

“May I be helping you gentlemen?” she asked politely.

“I am looking for the grandparents of one Master Edwin Hallett”, Sherlock said. 

The woman's face immediately took on a decidedly put-upon expression. 

“What has the young scamp been up to now?” she sighed. “I'm Mrs. Sopwith, the boy's grandmother, and it's my husband Alan you'll be wanting. He's inside. Come you in.”

She led us inside to a main room that was as spick and span as the outside of the building. A silver-haired man was sat reading in a rocking-chair by the fire, but looked up as we entered.

“Mr. Sopwith?” Sherlock said. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson.”

He looked at us uncertainly. 

“You were in the paper”, he said slowly. “Solving crimes and stuff. Young Edwin kept cutting all the bits out - usually before I got to read them!”

“I should apologize for your grandson's over-eagerness”, Sherlock smiled. “He has sent me a letter asking me to investigate a case for him. Concerning yourself.”

The elderly man looked astonished.

“Me?” he said querulously. “I've not been in any crimes. Have I, Mary?”

His wife chuckled, and turned to Sherlock.

“Did the young scallywag say what it was all about?” she asked.

“Only that you were apparently confused that a portrait had, and I quote, ' _not_ been stolen'”, Sherlock said. “I was quite intrigued. It is rare that I am called in to investigate where something has very definitely _not_ been taken!”

The elderly man sighed.

“You had both better sit down”, he said. 

+~+~+

“I retired a few weeks back”, he began. “I used to work for old Lord Etchingham who owns Moonraker House, up on the cliffs. Wonderful place it is, looking over one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world, yet miles from anywhere. So peaceful.”

He looked wistful as he remembered. Sherlock smiled.

“Please continue”, he said.

“Lord Etchingham is married but separated, and has no children of his own”, our host said. “Good riddance to her, that was the local opinion, and one I back fully. He's not been in the best of health these past twelve months; I offered to stay on if he wished, but he wouldn't hear of it. On his death the estate passes to his brother, Mr. William Morstan-Griffiths. He's never married – women round these parts have more taste, I'll give them that - so after he goes, the whole thing then goes to the third and last brother, Mr. Edwy. He's quite a bit younger than his kin, and married with two boys and a girl, so the estate would be all right with him. Or at least, that was what I thought.”

“What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“I don't understand such things, but apparently land 'aint the money-spinner it used to be”, Mr. Sopwith said. “His Lordship's estate manager, a right oily little know-all called Mr. Aloysius Derrington if you please, persuaded him that the best investments were things like art, rare coins, stamps and such. Though I suppose there might be some truth in that; the prices these things fetch in the papers make my eyes water!”

“You think that Mr. Derrington is involved in what has happened?” Sherlock asked. “Or not happened?”

“I know that for a fact”, the old man said firmly. “And there's another thing. His Lordship trusts the man for some reason, and I know that just after I finished, he had his lawyer up there to add something to his will. A code-something-or-other.”

“Codicil”, I said. “A legal addition to a will, signed and witnessed as the original.”

Sherlock looked at our host thoughtfully. 

“America”, Mrs. Sopwith prompted her husband.

“Oh yes, Mr. William lives just down the road in Hastings”, her husband said, “but Mr. Edwy went to do something or other in the United States last year, and hasn't come back yet. But the thing is, my grandson's right. Weird things had been happening in that house, and I was almost glad when my retirement came round in February and I could leave.”

“What 'weird things', precisely?” Sherlock asked.

“Last October – the twenty-second it was – I couldn't sleep for some reason. So I decided to slip out the servants' entrance and go round to get some sea air. The road up to the house comes up the side I was going to, and I was almost there when I saw it. It was a cloudless night and almost a Full Moon, so it was easy to see. Two men were carrying out a portrait from the house, and placing it in the cart – and Mr. Derrington was there watching them!”

“They drove off with it?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the thing, you see”, our host admitted. “They were three to my one, so I didn't dare challenge them. I knew the painting all right; it was the one young Edwin called 'the Three-Quarter' when he helped me out one time, because it showed King Charles the Second not looking straight on or to the side, but sort of in-between. It hangs in the main hall, and must be worth a fortune. No idea who painted it, though.”

“What did you do afterwards?” I asked. I was not prepared for the reply.

“Nothing”, he said flatly.

We both stared at him.

“Nothing?” I asked.

“Next day, I came out of the kitchen into the hallway”, he said, “and got the shock of my life! There the damn thing was, right there in its usual place. Decided I must have imagined the whole thing!”

“That is always possible”, Sherlock said. “However, let us assume for a moment that you did not. A painting was taken out of the building, yet returned by the following morning. Interesting.....”

He pushed his long fingers together in thought.

“Mr. Sopwith”, he said, “you have made your opinion of both your former employer and Mr. Aloysius Derrington quite clear. I would be grateful if you do the same for the characters of Lord Etchingham's brothers, Mr. William and Mr. Edwy.”

“Over twenty years of service means I can do just that, sirs”, he smiled. “Mr. William is not someone I would care to trust with tuppence to do some shopping! Pains me to say it, but I think he can't wait to get his greedy mitts on the estate. He never visits, for which we're grateful. Mr. Edwy is a bright young thing for his age, a bit of a flibbertigibbet but his heart is in the right place, and I think he will make a much better lord of the manor. He married a lady over from the United States – I think that was why he went back there; some land she inherited - and that seems to have settled him a bit. A dark-skinned lady, which of course Mr. William made a lot of noise over, but so what?”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Does Mr. Derrington live at the manor house?” he asked eventually.

“No, sir”, Mr. Sopwith said. “He cycles in every day. He has a house in Appledore, where you would have changed trains on the way down here. He did spend some days there when we were snowed in last Christmas, and I think His Lordship offered him rooms there for good, but I suppose he thought that what with the coming change of ownership, he might be forced out as soon as he was in.”

“Mr. William would not keep him on as an estate manager?” Sherlock asked.

“That's the only good thing about Mr. Derrington”, Mr. Sopwith said. “He hates Mr. William something fierce. Don't know why, though.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Appledore”, he said. “A pity. I do not suppose you happen to know whether Mr. Derrington has any relatives in the area?”

“His brother at Ashford, sir”, Mrs. Sopwith put in. “Name of Theodosius if you please, married, but no children as yet. He came down with him once. A much more pleasant gentleman, in my humble opinion. There's another brother up North too, I think, though I don't know exactly where.”

“Interesting”, Sherlock said. “I must say that your grandson has presented me with a most challenging case. I can see _whatwhy_ , and that is the important thing. Quite obviously one of two chains of events must have occurred to cause this, and we need to establish which is the correct one before we decide how to act. Mr. Sopwith, you say that this non-theft took place on October the twenty-second. Have there been any further incidents?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“Were there any other unusual occurrences at the house during your last few months there?”

Mr. Sopwith shook his head, but his wife again prompted him with a loud whisper about paint.

“Oh yes”, our host said. “Probably nothing, but just before the picture thing, His Lordship had some men in to repaint the entrance-hall and the gallery. Very finicky job, what with the paintings having to be taken down and all.”

“Were the paintings moved to another room?” Sherlock asked, his eyes alight for some reason.

“Yes”, Mr. Sopwith said. “Only His Lordship had the key. But they weren't painting anywhere near the Three-Quarter when I saw it being taken - or not; they were in the other room at that time. That's what made it so odd.”

“On the contrary”, Sherlock said. “It explains everything!”

Evidently it had not done so to the Sopwiths, who looked as much in the dark as I was. However, our discussion was interrupted at that moment when a boy of about sixteen years of age blustered into the room without knocking. He looked in surprise at all of us, then beamed.

“You came!” he exclaimed.

“Master Edwin Hallott, I presume”, Sherlock said. “Yes, we came. And you were right to summon us. This is indeed a most intriguing case.”

“Have you solved it yet?” the boy asked eagerly.

“Edwin!” his grandmother said reprovingly. The boy blushed at the reproof.

“I think that I have”, Sherlock said, “but I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course!” the boy beamed. “Anything!”

“Be patient!” Sherlock grinned. 

Master Hallott's face fell. 

“Why?” he whined.

Sherlock walked over and stood before the boy. Young Master Hallott was tall for his age, but like most teenagers he was all bones and angles. Even Sherlock's slender form dominated him.

“You will know from the doctor's books that sometimes, cases cannot be fully discussed because of the people in them, or certain facts that are difficult or embarrassing”, Sherlock said. “Yours, I think, will prove to be one such case. It may be some time – years, even – before the doctor can publish the events surrounding it. But you have my word as a gentleman that I will let you know as much as I can, and as soon as I can.”

The boy pouted a little.

“I do not even have any of your books”, he said. The nearest place with a library is Ashford, and I don't get to go there often enough to be able to borrow them. I can only read them when Mother and Father go shopping there every few months or so.”

“Dear me, we cannot have that!” Sherlock said, looking vexed. “Well, as someone who has provided inspiration for one of my cases, it is only fair that once that story is eventually published, you should receive your own copy, signed by both of us. Indeed, I am sure that if you ask nicely, the doctor may even be persuaded to forward you copies of all his books thus far.”

The boy looked hopefully across at me, and I nodded my acquiescence.

“Wow!” he exclaimed.

+~+~+

“What did you mean about Mr. Derrington's house in Appledore being 'a pity'?” I asked later. Sherlock had hired a carriage from the town stables, and we were making our way to Moonraker House. 

“You saw it when we changed trains”, Sherlock said, clicking at the reins, “even if the village itself was over a mile away from the station. What did you see?”

“Flatness”, I said. “And wetness. It is a marsh, after all.”

“Exactly”, he said.

This time, I was the one to pout. It did not work for me, though! Damnation!

+~+~+

We arrived at the great house, which stood some distance back from the sea but with magnificent views up and down the English Channel. Sherlock presented our cards, and we waited to be invited up (or not). My friend rather oddly sniffed at three of the paintings in the entrance-hall before the maid returned, and we were summoned into the presence of Lord Etchingham himself. He was a tired-looking old man in a wheelchair, though he batted away the attentions of the nurse who was trying to re-arrange his blankets.

“Greetings, gentlemen”, he said. “Of course I have heard of you. May I ask what brings you to this remote part of our scepter'd isle?”

Sherlock bowed, and I did likewise.

“I wish to talk to you about certain events in this house of late”, Sherlock said. “It would definitely be beneficial if your estate manager were here as well.”

“Derrington?”, the old man said, looking surprised. “What do you want with him?”

“I would much prefer to discuss that solely with the two of you”, Sherlock said, eyeing the nurse who was clearly all agog. “As I am sure you know, sir, I often prefer to do things my own way when pursuing justice, rather than to involve the forces of the law straight away.”

The threat was faint, but implied. The old man looked at us for a moment, then instructed the nurse to fetch the estate manager and to take a break herself. She flounced off, clearly annoyed.

Mr. Aloysius Derrington was much as Mr. Sopwith had described him, clinically efficient and smartly-dressed. There was a note of care in the way that he checked his master's blankets before taking the seat next to him, and his attitude towards us was almost defensive. Sherlock clearly picked up on it too.

“Have no fear, gentlemen”, he said. “I know what little game you have both been playing as of late, and I am sure that, if necessary, I could bring the whole thing to a halt. Yet I also know that you had good reasons for your actions. Be honest with me, and I will deal fairly with you.”

“Speak on, sir”, Lord Etchingham said. I noticed his hand shaking slightly as he spoke.

“I must say that of the many crimes that I have seen perpetrated in my time, this one was one of the most smartly executed”, Sherlock said. “Had it not been for your recently-retired butler needing a breath of night air at precisely the wrong moment, you would surely never have been detected.”

“There has been no crime here”, Mr. Derrington said stoutly. Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“A deliberate attempt to disinherit a rightful heir?” he said with a smile. “Come now, gentlemen.”

The two men said nothing.

“You, Lord Etchingham, feared for the future of the estate”, Sherlock said. “You knew the character of your brother William, and thought – possibly correctly – that he would spend the estate on his own well-being, and leave nothing for your brother Edwy and the next generation. Your lands and title go back to the great Elizabeth, and you not unnaturally wished for it to continue. Your brother had to be stopped – but how?”

“The house itself was safe, entailed as it doubtless is to prevent it being sold off except as a last resort. But the rest of the estate – a considerable sum of money – could easily be accessed by your brother. Although he is only a few years younger than you, he might have years left to wreak havoc, and leave nothing but the house itself for Mr. Edwy when he inherits. You, showing a cunning worthy of the monarch who ennobled your ancestor, found a most devious way to stop him.”

“You had an essential ally in Mr. Derrington here, a man who, though seemingly cold on the surface, is clearly committed to those he deems worthy of his loyalty. Your plan was, may I say, _most_ ingenious. First, you sold off your various land-holdings and purchased high-quality works of art, which you displayed in your home here. There was nothing unusual about that; land is a poor return just now, and many wealthy people are doing the same. But you went a step further.”

“It would of course have been easy for Mr. William, on inheriting, to have 'cashed in' all the artworks in his possession, most likely at a handsome profit. Your plan made sure that that would not happen. You commissioned a high-quality faker to reproduce each of the works that you had purchased, and on a set of nights the original artwork was taken from the house and the fakes put in their places. Your recently-retired butler was not unnaturally confused to see thieves taking away a painting one night, only to apparently see it back in its rightful place the very next morning! It was a letter about his seemingly delusional tendencies from his grandson that brought me into the case.”

The nobleman smiled at that.

“There was also the small matter of the new paint, which has a smell the servants would surely have picked up on”, Sherlock went on. “But you covered that danger, and very cleverly. By ordering a simultaneous redecoration of the rooms where the paintings were displayed, you made them think that what they could smell was the fresh wall-paint, not the paintings themselves. I had considered at one point that Mr. Derrington was defrauding you by organizing the whole ramp himself, but only you could have ordered such a thing to have occurred at precisely the right time.”

“You seem to know almost everything, sir”, Lord Etchingham said heavily. “What do you intend to do about it, may I inquire?”

Sherlock smiled.

“At the moment, nothing.”

Both men looked shocked. 

“Now that you have confirmed what I believed to be the case, I know that there has been no real crime”, Sherlock said. “The money will remain in the estate – I assume that once your brother passes on, Mr. Derrington will inform Mr. Edwy of the location of the original paintings - and the new Lord will be able to run his estate as he chooses. Let us all hope that he proves worthy of your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir”, Mr. Derrington said heartily.

“I have but one small question”, Sherlock said. “I know that you could not store the paintings in the areafor any great length of time, because away from this high location, the Marsh's damp environment is detrimental towards such delicate artwork. You, Mr. Derrington, have a brother in Ashford. Are the paintings stored at his house?”

“Not quite”, Mr. Derrington admitted. “He owns a small garage next to his workshop, and they are kept there, next to his house. They are perfectly safe and dry.”

“Excellent”, Sherlock smiled.

“You have dealt most fairly with me, sir”, Lord Etchingham said in his slow tone, “and I would not hold anything back from you. There is one piece of the puzzle that you do not have, although it does not impose directly onto the case. Aloysius here is blood; the illegitimate son of my first cousin, Henry Derrington. My great-grandfather Horatio, the sixth Lord Etchingham, was his great-great-grandfather.”

Mr. Derrington wrapped a possessive arm around his cousin.

“His Lordship stepped in when my own family disowned me as a bastard”, he said harshly. “I owe him everything. And when he is gone, I will see his wishes fulfilled. That I do solemnly swear.”

“Then it is my pleasure to wish you both good-day”, Sherlock smiled. “And good fortune in your endeavours.”

+~+~+

Sherlock visited the Sopwiths before we left the area, and explained his findings to them, knowing that they would keep confidence. We then adjourned to the station, and our train back to London. However, even the best-laid plans of mice and Sherlock are wont to go awra sometimes. Some minutes after our arrival, the stationmaster came out and told us that there had been a derailment just south of Ashford, and no trains could get through. We would have to wait for the next train, which would take us south to Hastings and a much longer journey home. I sighed in annoyance.

Eventually the train arrived, and of course we had to wait for the engine to run round for the journey south, which was another delay. But at least we obtained a first-class compartment to ourselves, and better still, a private non-corridor one. Sherlock looked at me curiously as I all but fell into the seat.

“You have been a little off ever since we came here”, he observed. “Why?”

He was doing that curious head-tilt of his, and I smiled at him.

“I had a case down here during your 'death' absence”, I said, still shuddering at the memory. It had only been six years ago, after all. “'Ninety-Two it was; an important patient of the surgery's asked if I could spend a month with her son and his heavily pregnant wife, at least until the child arrived; she had had severe problems with her first birth. They had a house in Camber, just over the border in Sussex but still part of the Marsh. I hated the place at the time, but it matched my mood without you.”

He nodded, and I was so lost in my thoughts that I did not notice him lowering the blinds until he spoke again.

“Then we had better make some good new memories to counter the bad old ones”, he growled, and with The Voice I went from zero to hard in seconds. He pulled me up, and was groping my backside when the train started with a jerk, toppling us both back onto the seat. He quickly manoeuvred himself from my grip and levered my erect cock from my trousers, then shrugged off his own trousers in record time. I was of course much slower, but he used that time to work himself open in short order.

“It is some miles to the next stop”, he said, squatting over me and positioning my cock at his entrance. “But let us not waste time.”

And with that me was pushing down onto me. I groaned in pleasure, my moans only increasing as the jerks of the train caused me to move inside of him. He let out a guttural growl, and reached down to kiss me.

“Go for it, John!” he ordered.

And on a South Eastern Railway train steaming merrily through the empty wastes of Romney Marsh, I did, thrusting into him and aiming straight for his prostate. I tweaked both his nipples simultaneously, then ran a hand down his chest before squeezing his cock hard. He arched his back and whined, then came violently, splattering both our shirts. The sight was too much for me, and I followed him over the edge, filling the man I loved.

I was too exhausted to do much more, and it was well for us that Sherlock had enough wits left to clean us both up and make us presentable before we reached Rye. Though even opening the window did little to alleviate the aroma of sensually-fucked male that permeated the carriage, and it was a good thing that there were no first-class passengers along the line to disturb our post-coital bliss.

+~+~+

Two months later, Sherlock was reading through his usual flurry of letters when he found one which seemingly amused him. I looked up at his chuckle.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Listen to this”, he said. “The new Lord Etchingham, having recently inherited what he had thought to be a prosperous estate from his late brother James, is shocked to find that someone has managed to replace all the valuable paintings in his collection with fakes. He positively commands that we go down to somewhere called “Moonraker House” hard by the English Channel, to investigate this horrible crime!”

I smiled.

“Will you take the case?” I asked innocently.

He pretended to think about it for a few moments, then shook his head. 

“I cannot possibly see how such a crime could have been effected!” he said. “And Romney Marsh is most definitely not a healthy environment, not at all. No, regretfully I shall have to decline his request. What a pity!”

I laughed at his insincerity.

+~+~+

Postscriptum: The new Lord Etchingham did not live long to enjoy his inheritance, dying of the flu that same winter. I was thus able to follow up my package of all my books, which I had sent to young Master Hallott, with Sherlock's solution of the case, and a promise that when I got round to publishing it in book rather than magazine form, he would be receiving a double-signed first edition. I received a very pleasant and well-written letter of thanks in return. There is hope for the young generation, it seems.

+~+~+

A poisoning in a monastery leads to our next case, and a death in a small Berkshire town.


End file.
